Ceremony

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  Bernadette remembered: the six-hour standoff in Kansas City. “Yes.”

  “You have a weapon?”

  She nodded.

  Schroeter looked up from the laptop screen. “The university’s system says the white Camry was checked out by Nick LaSalle on Monday. Hasn’t returned it since.”

  Bernadette nodded. “That just increased the odds of Annika being in that building.”

  “Okay.” Officer Chesapeake opened the door of his cruiser and got out, with Schroeter getting out too. He put on a black wool cap with the Milwaukee Police logo, and Schroeter did the same with a plain gray cap, then handed a radio to her. “Stay in close contact.”

  Bernadette looked toward the abandoned warehouse. The parking lot was dark, but there were lights from the lakefront and from some of the closer industrial buildings, as well as the elevated freeway. The two hundred feet between the cruisers and the front of the building contained nothing but open asphalt, concrete, and snow. She went to the SUV and got her coat and wool hat, and she walked to the passenger’s side of the cruiser, waiting to walk up and knock on the front door.

  Schroeter conferred with the two officers in the second cruiser then stepped away as the car reversed and drove away. It made a turn around the other buildings and stopped about a hundred feet away from the back of the warehouse. The doors opened and both officers stepped behind the cruiser.

  Hands on their holsters, Chesapeake and Schroeter nodded to each other then moved quickly across the moonlit parking lot, their shoes making silent tracks in the snow. Then they both disappeared around the side.

  Feeling the chill of the metal passenger door go through her coat, Bernadette shivered. With no cloud cover to keep the heat in, the temperature had plummeted. Bernadette’s teeth chattered.

  Her radio chirped. “Thirty seconds.”

  It must be bitterly cold in the warehouse, too. If Annika Nakrivo was in there—and if she’d been in there since the early afternoon—she might be in danger of hypothermia. Bernadette crouched and looked at her watch. She’d need about fifteen seconds to cross the lot and knock on the door.

  Twenty seconds.

  Nineteen, eighteen—

  Bang.

  Bernadette jumped. Not a shot. The steel front door had been thrown open and crashed against a concrete pillar.

  A strange figure on the ground in the shadows—five legs? Scooting jerkily from the entrance.

  The figure moaned. The volume was low, and Bernadette barely made it out.

  “Help me, please—someone, help me…”

  Annika Nakrivo.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bernadette sprinted toward the figure on the ground: Annika, tied to a four-legged metal chair. Her ankles were duct-taped to the chair’s front legs and one of her wrists was still taped to the arm, but she’d gotten her right hand free and was pulling herself along the ground.

  Bernadette knelt over her and pulled on the duct tape over Annika’s left wrist, but it was too strong for her gloved hands. She fumbled with the radio, then clicked the button. “Nakrivo’s out the front door. No sign of others. Repeat, Nakrivo’s out the front door.”

  She kept pulling on the duct tape. Annika had a wool hat, winter coat, and gloves on—fortunate in the sub-freezing temperature. “Is anyone in there?”

  The radio in Bernadette’s hand crackled acknowledgment. Distantly, car doors closed and distant voices could be heard, urgent, getting closer.

  “Thank you,” Annika gasped. “Thank you for saving me—”

  “Annika!” Bernadette snapped. “Is there anyone else in the warehouse?”

  “I—I don’t think so. The man left about an hour ago.”

  “An hour?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to pull free.”

  “What man?”

  “He—” Annika began to sob. “He’s the one who fixes the computers at the lab.”

  “Nick LaSalle?”

  “Nick. Yes, that’s his name.”

  Bernadette set her jaw. “Did he bring you here in the university’s car?”

  “I—” Annika swallowed. “I don’t know. I don’t remember anything. I was in my dorm room, and then someone knocked on the door. I answered and then—and the next thing I remember is waking up here in the dark, tied up.”

  “Was anyone with you?”

  “Please,” Annika said, “please, get me out of this.”

  Bernadette clicked on the radio again. “She’s tied to the chair with duct tape. Bring a knife. And call an ambulance.”

  “We need to find Nick,” Bernadette said. “We need to know where he went. How did he leave?”

  Annika sobbed. “No ambulance. Please. No hospital. I want to go home.”

  “Okay, sweetie,” Bernadette said. “We’ll get you out of this.” In her mind, a clock began ticking. How long had Nick LaSalle been on the run? Was there another payment waiting for him from Parr Medical after the lampreys were all dead?

  More sirens.

  “You’re okay, Annika,” Bernadette said. “We’ve got you. You’ll be all right.”

  Kep Woodhead pushed his glasses up his face as he walked across the frozen parking lot toward the white Toyota Camry, Bernadette beside him.

  “You okay?”

  Kep smiled grimly. “Curtis’s death is hitting me harder than I thought it would. It’s been a long day.”

  “We need your superschnozz for one more thing. Then you can go back to the hotel.”

  An officer stood beside the Camry, next to a tall, imposing woman with red cheeks, dressed in a parka and a wool Green Bay Packers hat, who was putting several tools into a large metal toolbox. Bernadette assumed she was the locksmith.

  “Got it open?”

  “Sure,” the locksmith said. “If you’ve got the right tool, these Toyotas open up like a tin of sardines.”

  “Let’s hope this one doesn’t smell as bad,” Bernadette quipped, looking at Kep out of the corner of her eye. At least the wind had shifted, and the fertilizer stench had dissipated.

  “Doors are unlocked, and I left the trunk open half an inch,” the locksmith said, continuing to put tools back in the box.

  “Thanks.” Kep raised the trunk lid and lowered his head into it. “This is it,” he said. “I have no question in my mind that someone used this car to transport TFM, probably in these two black tote bags.”

  Bernadette stuck her head in the trunk. “Those are the same tote bags I saw Nick LaSalle carrying on Tuesday night,” she said, fuming. “That’s why Nick LaSalle never checked the car back in at the university. He had a hundred pounds of stolen TFM in the trunk.”

  “That is certainly a theory that makes sense,” Kep said, a wavering note in his voice.

  Bernadette paused. “What is it?”

  “All signs shifted from Vivian Roundhouse, and they now point to Nick LaSalle,” Kep said. “The college loan payment, the car he checked out, his keylogger program—it all fits. He had access to the laboratory. I suspect he had access to the computers that control the alarm systems as well.”

  Bernadette tapped her foot. “No smoking gun, though, right?”

  “That isn’t the only thing that concerns me.”

  “Then what?”

  “His actions fail to make sense to me. Are we supposed to believe that LaSalle killed Kymer Thompson, shot Eddie Taysatch, and killed Curtis?”

  “If you smelled TFM in the trunk, then Nick is the most likely person to kill the lampreys, isn’t he?”

  Kep took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “He’s high on the suspect list for killing the ammocoetes, yes.”

  “And therefore, he’s high on the suspect list for killing Thompson and Curtis—and shooting Taysatch too.”

  “I understand his motive for killing the lampreys—he was paid to do so. However, murder is a different level—one that an IT specialist might be loath to undertake.”

  Bernadette opened her mouth, then shut it.

 
“What were you going to say?”

  “Thompson and Curtis were killed to stop them from reporting the alarm,” Bernadette said. “But you have a point. There must be easier, less homicidal ways to prevent people from reporting alarms. Although the amount of his college loan payoff is more than enough money to buy a hit.”

  “I suspect LaSalle would try to break into the system and prevent the alarms from being sent in the first place.”

  “Maybe the system’s airgapped.”

  “Possibly. But there are still quite a few things that don’t make sense. What is LaSalle still doing in Milwaukee? Why use the Agios Delphi van to shoot Taysatch? Why kidnap Annika Nakrivo?” Kep rubbed his beard. “Additionally, a large multinational corporation would hire a professional to kill people. Paying an amateur like LaSalle to kill Thompson and Taysatch defies all logic.”

  Bernadette paused and shuffled her feet. “Maybe LaSalle’s work isn’t done here. Maybe he wanted to cast the blame on the church so we wouldn’t look at him as a suspect. Could be that Annika knew something. Maybe she knew where a vital piece of Thompson’s research was.”

  Kep straightened up. “It’s certainly possible.”

  “What is your gut telling you?”

  “My gut doesn’t put me on the right path most of the time,” Kep said. “That’s why I follow my nose.” He walked around the side of the car and opened the driver’s door, sticking his head in. “Under the smell of Carver’s Burgers and Nick LaSalle’s pastrami sandwiches,” he said, “I can detect Annika Nakrivo’s perfume. So it seems she was in this vehicle.”

  “Fits our theory that LaSalle was the one to kidnap her.”

  “Correct.” He stood up. “I am able to sense the unique scent profile of the lampreys—with the TFM layered beneath.”

  “So this car is pretty much ground zero for turning the aquarium into a silver lamprey graveyard.”

  Kep walked around the car, opening each door and sniffing inside. “Can you think of any other scenario that makes sense?”

  “You mean, besides Nick LaSalle kidnapping Annika?”

  “Yes.”

  Bernadette nodded. “Sure. We can’t rule out the church. This property is owned by Suzanne Thao, the van was owned by the church, the body was found in the church—Vivian Roundhouse might be all over this.”

  “Suzanne Thao is another possible suspect,” Kep said. “However, I fail to see a motive for either of them to kill the lampreys.”

  “I know that the supply of ibogaine is a possible motive for Roundhouse to kill Thompson and maybe shoot Eddie,” Bernadette said, “but I can’t see how those pieces fit together yet to have her kill the fish.”

  “I agree.” Kep paused. “Cecilia Carter. Have we established motive for her?”

  “Yes. Motive to kill the lampreys to save the ecosystem, for sure. She has the arrest record, but protesting is a far cry from murder to cover her tracks.”

  Kep closed the rear driver’s-side door. “The time is late, the air is cold, and my energy has waned. Let’s head back to the hotel.”

  Bernadette shook her head. “I’m heading to the State Street district office. A tech down there is sharing some of her financial findings with me.”

  “At this hour?”

  “She’s pulling overtime because of the—uh…”

  “Because Curtis was killed.”

  “Yes.”

  Kep’s phone buzzed, and he took it out and looked at the screen.

  “Important?”

  “A spam text,” he said, putting the phone back in his pocket.

  “At this hour?”

  Kep took a step closer to Bernadette, then lowered his voice. “You know Maura better than I do, but in case she doesn’t invite you into her confidences, be—uh—especially careful with what you say about Curtis.”

  “I know. He was Maura’s protégé. So young. So much potential.”

  Kep blinked, then looked quizzically at Bernadette.

  “Did she really not tell you?”

  Tell me what?

  And then the realization hit her. Maura and Curtis. Kep knew and Bernadette didn’t.

  “She told you she was having a relationship with Curtis?”

  “No.”

  “Then how—”

  Kep tapped his nose.

  “Oh, come on,” Bernadette said. “You’re saying you can identify pheromones or something?”

  “Not pheromones. Maura’s shampoo in Curtis’s hair the last case I worked.”

  Bernadette shook her head defiantly. “I can’t believe that. She wouldn’t risk her career for a roll in the sack with a subordinate. No matter how cute he is. Was. I mean—there has to be almost twenty years between them.”

  Kep took a step back. “I understand that you don’t want it to be true. That you believe Maura is worthy of a higher standard. I understand she’s a professional, but sometimes the temptation is too great.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Science doesn’t lie.” Kep sniffed and his glasses slipped down his nose. “We have less control over our choice of mate than you think. Have you heard of the human leukocyte antigen?”

  Bernadette felt her blood pressure rise.

  “It’s a system of proteins that are responsible for the regulation of the immune system. Studies have shown that heterosexual women are more attracted to men whose proteins are dissimilar to their own. That way, their offspring have a better chance of a stronger immune system that can fend off a broader swath of diseases—”

  “You’re saying,” she interrupted, “that Maura risked her career to sleep with a young subordinate because of the way he smelled?”

  “Precisely.”

  Bernadette stamped her feet. “When all you have is a hammer, Kep, every problem looks like a nail.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Bernadette rolled her eyes. “I think you and that hammer in the middle of your face are smart enough to figure it out.”

  Kep frowned. “Look—this doesn’t have any bearing on who murdered Curtis. If we start to get clues that it was related to their affair—”

  “They weren’t having an affair,” Bernadette muttered.

  “—then I’ll bring it up. But Maura’s distraught. She’s grieving. I advise you to keep your distance on this subject. I can’t predict how Maura will react if she thinks we know about her and Curtis.”

  Bernadette squeezed her eyes shut. “Why tell me at all, Kep?”

  “Because,” Kep said, “you deserve to know.”

  She opened her eyes and furrowed her brow. “It won’t help us solve the case.”

  “The truth will out.”

  Bernadette paused. “What?”

  “‘Murder cannot be hid long; a man’s son may, but at the length, the truth will out.’”

  Bernadette glared at him. “For once, could you speak like a normal person?”

  Kep pushed his glasses up on his nose. “It’s from The Merchant of Venice. That’s one of the Bard’s most well-known plays.”

  Bernadette gritted her teeth and took a step forward. “Do you even care that our co-worker was murdered?”

  “I have solved quite a few more murders than you have,” Kep said.

  “That’s not the only thing that counts.”

  Kep blinked. “What else could possibly count? The number of times you’ve been demoted?”

  Bernadette felt her heart lurch. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.

  “If you don’t desire to work with the most successful CSAB investigator of the last two years,” Kep said, “you can provide me a ride back to the hotel on your way to State Street.”

  Bernadette swallowed hard, then found her voice, wavery as it was. “You’re done for the night?”

  “I am.” He pointed to the cruisers. “Perhaps I shall ride with one of the local constabulary.”

  Bernadette seethed. She should give Kep a ride back—the Outsider Hotel was only a few blocks out of the way—but the t
hought of spending another second with his smug face and his literary references made her blood boil. She shook her head. “I don’t want Lesley to wait any longer for me than she already has.”

  “I’ll bid you goodnight, then.” Kep’s tone told her he knew her response was bullshit, that she had no desire to be in a car with him even for the ten minutes it would take to drop him off at the hotel. He looked at his watch. “Or good morning.” He turned and walked away.

  “Nothing else from Nick LaSalle’s financials,” Lesley Gill said. She looked different from the picture in Bernadette’s head: short, spiky auburn hair, several shades lighter than her dark brown skin, and thin gold-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She wore a bright block-color pullover and black jeans—a far cry from the officers’ uniforms, but as she was a civilian employee—and it was the middle of the night—Bernadette understood why she wasn’t dressed up. Techies never had to dress up in the office, anyway. At CSAB, if you were one of the few people who knew how the servers worked, you could show up in clown makeup and trousers made from raw bacon and still keep your job.

  It was two thirty in the morning, and Bernadette sat in a chair behind Lesley’s desk, half-heartedly looking over her shoulder at the database search results on her screen.

  “No ATM activity,” Lesley continued. “And nothing on his credit cards.”

  Bernadette crossed her arms. “And he didn’t go back to the IT department after leaving the Freshie yesterday?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you find out?”

  “I can’t wake people up in the middle of the night to ask that kind of question, Bernadette,” Lesley said. “You’ll have to wait till eight o’clock. Maybe even nine.”

  “I’m sure he’s on the run,” Bernadette muttered. “We’ve got to make sure we check the airports, train stations, buses—”

  “He had at least an hour’s head start on us when you found Annika,” Lesley said. “He could be on any of ten different buses, or trains to Winnipeg or Toronto. If he took a charter plane like Annika did, he could already be in Canadian airspace—or, come to think of it, halfway to Mexico.”

  Bernadette tilted her head back until she was staring at the ceiling, then exhaled.